


Saving the Railway #1: Clearing a Line (I)

by MeanScarletDeceiver



Category: The Railway Series - W. Awdry, Thomas the Tank Engine & Friends, Thomas the Tank Engine - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, also thomas and edward canonically have known each other 8 years at this point, anyway it's their fault this is so long they wouldn't stop being cute, early!thomas has no social skills whatsoever, he's a feral brat and i GLORY in it, this gives me life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:08:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25201441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeanScarletDeceiver/pseuds/MeanScarletDeceiver
Summary: 1923. Gordon's first day. Thomas sees the world's biggest, greatest, most splendid joke on wheels. Gordon sees a misbegotten changeling. Edward sees trouble.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27





	1. Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo... This is an outtake from a larger work detailing Henry's first few years on Sodor, where he is stuck in the role of "Hatt's folly" and "the swindle." It goes from his creation to the whole "tunnel" story.
> 
> But this part was honestly too... cheerful, and dialogue-heavy, so I offer this as a stand-alone peek into the early North Western Railway, right on the cusp of its biggest change. 
> 
> Gordon's arrival changed EVERYTHING, for reasons I detail over on my tumblr (https://mean-scarlet-deceiver.tumblr.com/)... and may one day finally show in the complete fic. *jinxes self*
> 
> This will be posted in three parts. Thanks for reading. <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gordon's first day. Thomas has something to look forward to... for a change. Edward's under orders to make sure everyone plays nice. 1923.

**Part 1 — Waiting**

Thomas the tank engine was famously bad at waiting. 

The cleaners usually scheduled his blow-out as early as possible, just as soon as he had prepared the morning’s trains, because Thomas was most likely to still be rather sleepy then, and at the height of his limited stock of patience. 

But that morning it was hopeless. He couldn’t stop sizzling, and that made everything take longer, and that made him sizzle still more. 

“There’s honestly no reason his couldn't wait till tomorrow,” said the head cleaner at last.

Thomas’s driver wouldn’t hear of it. “Let him slip out of it once and we’ll have a struggle every day.” 

“Well, can’t do a thing till you get him to cool a bit.” 

“That’s Gabe’s lookout,” said the driver, and the fireman grinned. He intended to work smart, not hard. 

“Thomas,” he called, “if you don’t calm down, we’re going to take our lunch at the usual time after all, and you’ll miss Edward and the new Gresley.” 

“Heartless!” snapped the tank engine. 

“That’s me.” 

“You _couldn’t_.” 

“Think timetable thoughts, Thomas, there’s a good lad,” said the driver. 

Thomas eyed them, and then sighed. He let off a great deal of steam and tried very hard to concentrate on running through the whole Knapford timetable in his head. There was a bit of challenge to this, as lately it changed every week. And yet it was _still_ too boring to keep his attention. Besides which, it only reminded him of Edward’s canceled train, which reminded him that he’d been promised that he could join the welcoming committee, and—

No good, and he knew it. Grudgingly, he forced himself to start counting rail ties for as far as he could see. 

His fire died down, Gabe struck a champion’s pose, and the workers were able to get at Thomas’s boiler. 

It was just as well that, after his cleaning, he was as busy as he was. His crew and the shunters did their usual grumbling: they rather thought they were being kept far _too_ busy as of late, but Thomas didn’t mind a bit. The morning and midday went by in a flash of clacking coaches and indignant passengers and organized goods sidings, and he was almost alarmed when Edward returned with the one-forty train. 

His driver assured him that there was plenty of time before the Gresley was scheduled to come in, but Thomas zipped through the rest of his work, charming the shunters, bossing the trucks, and ignoring the protests of the tired coaches. Gresley or no Gresley, who cared! He’d gotten excited for a Gresley once before, and considered himself too experienced and wise from that disappointment to get so worked up again. 

_Any_ newcomer was excitement enough, of course, especially when life was so dull. But, just as much, he was excited to take his break with Edward. They’d had seven or eight newcomers come and go since the last time they'd had a chance to rest and chat in broad daylight. Once, it had been a little ritual of theirs—but it had been _years_. 

Indeed, the past few weeks everyone had been too busy and weary to talk much, even at night in the sheds. It certainly didn’t help, either, that Thomas always woke before dawn, and the others usually came in after sunset. 

Truth be told, Thomas was going slightly out of his mind with loneliness. 

He scrambled all the way back to Tidmouth as fast as his driver would allow and turned round again, puffing up as the maintenance crew finished with Edward. He was occupied by trying to say several things all at once—a demand to know why he’d been ordered that morning to switch Edward’s coaches at the last minute, and a joke about boiler sludge, and even a simple hullo was in there somewhere too—and consequently he didn’t notice until too late that he was coming to a stop level with the other engine. 

“Wait, wait! Driver, this is too far, let’s back up!” 

“No, indeed,” said Edward, as the driver blatantly ignored Thomas in what he thought was a very hard and cruel way. “Just right. If you’re going to cheek him, you’re going to have to do it face-to-face, not hiding behind me.” 

“No, I shan’t! I won’t be _able_ to say a word, if he’s half as big as everyone says. Do let me just stay well back—you’ll never know I’m here!” 

Edward laughed. 

At that laughter, even Thomas he had to own to himself that he always said that he would be too scared to talk to newcomers. However, the awe invariably gave way to cheeking off after about ten minutes. 

With Henry, it had been a record. Less than two. 

“Right up here,” Edward said firmly. 

“No, no, I _can’t_. Oh, driver, please. I’ll go away.” 

“It would be just as well if you did. Controller gave me strict instructions to make sure the Gresley gets a nice welcome, and he specifically mentioned keeping you in line. If you stay you’re bound to get me into trouble.” 

“No I won’t. I wouldn’t! I’ll stay and be nice. So long as it’s a real express engine this time, and not another slowpoke.”

“Thomas.” 

“I’ll be nice _no matter what_. Oh, you’ve got to do the talking, though. It’s dreadful, being all the way up here.” 

“It’s a deal.” Edward tried to sound grim, but the effect was rather ruined because he never could help smiling at Thomas. 

It was pleasant to wait together and talk meanwhile over all the doings in the yard and on the line. There was a great deal to catch up on. 

Thomas exulted shamelessly over the disappearance of the “ham engines,” and promised several times that he would manage just fine alone. It seemed to him that Edward was far too worried about him. “I've been managing without much help from them all this past winter _anyway_ ; they were always out double-heading. Double-hamming, rather? Ooh!"

"How did you never think up that one while they were here?" Edward sounded deeply relieved at the close call.

"I know, right? Anyway, stop fussing. I can do my bit, too—you just watch! D’you reckon this is really it, though? That we’ll get the express running this time, and get more engines?” 

“Yes indeed. They were very lucky to fool the Fat Controller once, and there’s not a chance he’ll let it happen twice. One more summer, Thomas. We can do it.” 

“D’you think they’ll be _decent_ engines? I miss Linda, and Henry’s an all right sort, but I’d rather do all the work alone forever and ever than have more nutters like those hams.” 

“Maybe you should let Henry know you think that. He might find it a pleasant surprise.” 

“What! I’m awfully nice to Henry.”

“Oh, you are, are you?” 

“I don’t tease him _nearly_ as often as he deserves. Anyway, I heard you two were at outs with each other!” 

“You heard wrong.” 

“You didn’t tell Henry off for shirking his bit, then?” 

“Where did you hear _that_?” 

“I was listening to some of the shunters talk in the yard. They say you two haven’t spoken in weeks.” 

“Well, they’re quite mistaken, and that’s all you should expect from listening to gossip. It isn’t nice for engines and people to eavesdrop on each other anyway.” 

Thomas scowled. “It’s not as if there’s usually another engine around to talk to while my crew’s on break! What am I supposed to do?” 

Edward had no answer for that. “I know you must be bored. But you mustn’t take the shunters seriously; they hear everything from the line and our sheds third-hand. I own I did get rather snappish the morning of the fair—you were already in the yard for this—and I hurt Henry’s feelings. But he did very well with that train, and I apologized, and we’ve been quite all right again. That was weeks and weeks ago now.” 

“ _I_ think Henry’s still upset.” 

“What makes you think that?” 

“He’s been quiet. It’s odd, not hearing him complain. If you were still friends he’d be more natural.” 

“Hmm. Well, you might be right. I’ve just thought he must be tired. I mean, I know he is. We all are, and rather out of sorts.” 

“One more summer?” Thomas was a perfect mixture of mockery and faith, and Edward smiled. 

“That’s right. One more summer.” 

When they heard a distant grumbling puff, deep and unfamiliar, Thomas was briefly disappointed; their little break had passed all too quickly. But his mood bounced back almost at once as they listened to the engine passing through the station and then into the yard. 

Thomas was impressed, stunned beyond words really, when he saw it. 

“Oh,” he breathed, “ _oh_!” 

“Shh,” hissed Edward. But it’s not at all impolite for engines to stare boldly upon each other without acquaintance—engines almost always like to be looked at, so there’s no harm in it—and they both did so as the Gresley puffed by. 

Thomas almost thought he never _would_ finish going by: he was moving so slowly and deliberately, and there seemed to be no end to him. His wheels were massive—even his front “pony” wheels seemed almost as large as all of Thomas’s—and he was freshly gleaming in N.W.R.’s signature sky-blue with red lining. 

Altogether, Thomas—whose impatience and desires had been put off by some version or another of “one more summer” all his life—for the first time really believed that the future would be different. The Fat Controller had pulled it off. Their railway was saved. They _would_ grow. That new paint was almost the very sign and seal of it. Yes, things were underway and something proper, this time. 

Gradually the engine did pass them. He did not look to the left or the right; he appeared to not even see the other two engines. Thomas, though he would have faced derailment and death sooner than admit it even to himself, was a little abashed. He’d had to be told most of his life to mind his rails, and this quite new young engine, still fairly smelling of the oil of the workshop, had already somehow mastered the art. 

It was all but _unnatural_ to keep one’s eyes so studiously on the tracks in a strange new place, with so much to see. 

But, of course, the _most_ unnatural thing was his size. 

“Did you ever see such a big engine?” he whispered excitedly, when the Gresley had finally passed. 

“Oh, we both have! Certainly he’s quite grand, but I do believe he and Henry are within inches of each other in every direction, after all.” 

“Oh, but that’s not the same.” Thomas still considered himself bound by his promise to not open his mouth during their first introductions, but even without this stricture he knew very well that he should not have _dared_ tease the new engine as quickly as he had Henry. To be honest, he wasn’t sure he could keep his wheels from quaking. “Henry doesn’t fit his frame, somehow. This one _likes_ being that size, and it makes all the difference.” 

“Shrewd eye you’ve got today.” If Edward had meant this as gentle teasing, it quite backfired: Thomas grinned proudly. “Yes, I see exactly what you mean.” 

“Still,” said Thomas, “I suppose they are pretty near identical. I’m glad he’s already been given our colors. I heard passenger engines from his railway are green, but that would have made it quite a bother to tell them apart.” 

“It _was_ good policy, though I imagine he isn’t half uncomfortable right now. ‘Gordon’ very likely wasn't his name on the mainland, either, and it must be quite a lot of change, all at once.” 

“Is this another reminder that I’m to be ever so nice and quiet?” Thomas scowled. 

“Oh, that's me rumbled, then. Clever engine he’s getting to be!” 

They bickered good-naturedly for a bit, until they heard the Gresley puffing up behind them on the furthest line. 


	2. Fraternizing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I lied. It's gonna be two parts. We're done here! 
> 
> Part 2: Gordon reacts to Sodor in general, and Henry in particular, with measured, reasonable, and humble grace. You know. Like he does. (Warning: does not exactly end on a high note.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... may or may not have been thinking of this face when Gordon sees Henry:  
> https://preview.tinyurl.com/yctddgzb
> 
> Anyway, this turns rather "dark" toward the end, because, well, it's part of a rough story. Stay tuned for more early N.W.R. stories to see how out of hand the situation gets! (Edward is a stand-up dude, but his suspicion that he is now out of his depth is *spot-on*. Also, the thing he's holding back? The thing he can't seem to spit out? _Criticism of the Fat Controller's management style_. I'm not sure he's even admitted it to himself, and he sure as heck ain't going to admit it to Thomas.) 
> 
> Also, I truly feel really, really bad for Gordon throughout all of this. Despite his best attempts.

**Part 2 — Fraternizing**

There is a point, in the social etiquette of machinery, where it is rude to address the people on the scene preferentially to one’s kind. 

The point exists in somewhat of a grey area, with many exceptions carved out. So even skeptical Thomas couldn’t have claimed that the big new engine _did_ get to that point when he frowned thunderously at having been stopped at the service platform on the track next to Edward, whose whistle of greeting he did not return. 

“Why have we stopped here?” he demanded, of his disembarking driver. 

But he was certainly _somewhere_ in the neighborhood.

To Thomas’s ear, the driver sounded a little weary. “Because its been a long day already, and we all need a little break to catch our breath, before anything else.” 

“Did I not see a proper shed by that turntable?” 

“Sunlight’s good for the soul. See you in half an hour, old boy,” said the driver, and he and the fireman beat a hasty retreat into yard headquarters. Gordon’s expression was indescribably indignant.

Perhaps the best way to describe it is to relate that Thomas’s wheels stopped quaking; he felt his rails get nice and solid beneath him once more. Great and strong this new engine might be, and yet… 

Well, it was probably just as well that Edward had made him promise to hold his tongue, after all. 

“I think they thought you’d want company,” said Edward. “You must be Gordon. We’re glad you’ve come,” he added, after a slight pause in which it was abundantly clear that Gordon was in no hurry to speak. 

There then followed a significantly longer pause. Gordon frankly eyed Edward and Thomas in turn, and then, after a time, stared straight ahead, without a word. 

The two Sodor engines exchanged a glance, with nearly twin expressions of disbelief, and with the mutual instinct to laugh and leave him. 

However, orders were orders. There was to be no trial period for Gordon, who was already bought and paid for and, it seemed, even in N.W.R. blue: He _must_ work out. They were giving him a rather hard job, which they literally could not afford for him to fail as Henry had done before him, and the Fat Controller had made it clear that he expected them to do everything possible to make the new express engine comfortable. Yet again—one more summer.

So Thomas kept quiet rather than make the obvious joke about the Gresley engineers having forgot to give this one a sense of hearing, and Edward gamely tried again. 

“I’m Edward,” he said, tone still friendly, “and this is Thomas.” 

Gordon glanced at them, and only frowned. 

He looked almost _pouty_ , which expression tickled Thomas on an engine of that size. 

This silence went on for an absurdly long time. Edward seemed to be trying to avoid looking at Thomas, for fear that Thomas should laugh if they made eye contact. But when it happened anyway, Thomas only grinned at him. It was its own sort of fun, to have nothing to do but watch and see. And he was rather proud of himself, too, that he should manage to follow orders under such provocation. (He hoped Edward was too. He'd have to _remind_ him to be.)

“You must be tired,” Edward said at last, trying once more. “Was it a very long journey?” 

Gordon slowly eyed him—slowly eyed Thomas—slowly eyed the sky. 

Finally he muttered, tersely, “Your Controller’s put in a good word for you, and I know you’ve worked this railway since its beginning, so I don’t mind making _your_ acquaintance. But could you not make that tank engine go away?” 

Thomas managed to not whistle loud indignation—but it was a near thing. 

Edward winked at him, making Thomas feel quite comfortable again, and told Gordon gravely, “If I could, I’d be the first who ever did.” 

Gordon looked a combination of annoyed and appalled. “I _see_.” 

“This is our chief station pilot. I’m sure Controller would have mentioned him too; he’s very fond of our Thomas. He and I arrived the same day, you know, and our railway would never get on without him.” 

The big engine looked dim and skeptical as he eyed Thomas. When he spoke, he still addressed Edward. “Does it talk?” 

“Not much,” Thomas answered for himself; “I generally just mind my own business, and behave myself.” 

It was worth it to see Edward almost lose it completely. 

Gordon looked suspicious, even as Thomas kept an innocent look about him. “On the G.N.R.,” he told Edward, “we do not fraternize with the pilots and shunters… particularly if they are mere tank engines.” 

“Oh?” Edward’s tone was casual, as if this were a mildly interesting factoid, and he added kindly: “Sounds rather tiresome. No one will think any the less of you here, though.” 

Gordon eyed him levelly for a long moment, and at the end of it he heaved the longest and weariest sigh that Thomas had ever heard from man or engine. 

“I suppose I’m the one who has come north,” said Gordon, with all the resignation of an exiled prince, “and I shall have to adjust to your customs.” 

Thomas was _dying_. He thought his boiler would burst. He _hoped_ it did. 

If it _didn’t_ , Thomas would be forced to laugh outright, tell the Gresley what a splendid silly sausage he was to his face, and the Fat Controller would probably personally oversee Thomas shoved into the sea. 

Edward sounded sympathetic. “You didn’t want to come, then?” 

“What?” The big engine was mildly flabbergasted, but made a quick recovery. “No, indeed! I never shirk my duty, glad to go where I’m needed. Expanding a new young railway, it’s honorable work.” 

There was much more than a dash of bravado to this statement, as if he had been struggling very hard to make himself believe it. 

For all Thomas had dreamed of going to a new railway, he grasped at once that, if he were ever really sent away (sent away! not having prevailed upon the Fat Controller to let him go, but _being sent_ —as this reluctant engine clearly had been), he would be doing very well to be as brave as Gordon was just then. 

So even Thomas could almost like him in that moment, and Edward grew very warm. “Oh, it _is_. Always that—and on the best days there’s a great deal of fun in it, too.” 

“I did not come up here for my own enjoyment,” proclaimed Gordon, almost capitalizing each word. 

“Of course not,” Edward said seriously, “you came because we need you to launch our express service, and we’re all very glad you're here. I hope you’ll come to find yourself at home with us.” 

Gordon only grunted, as if this welcome was scarcely even so much as he was due. 

It was just as well that he did, as Thomas hadn't really wanted to have to respect him, anyway.

After this dash of cold water, Edward got out of Gordon that he had crossed the bridge, rather than come by boat (“Vulgar, foolish form of transport”), and Gordon got out of Edward that yes, the new engine had come to Tidmouth by the main line and not a branch, and that no, they were not hiding away a newer and better turntable somewhere hereabouts. 

Then the already anemic conversation lagged, with Thomas smug to think that Edward probably wouldn’t rather have him chiming in, after all, to help move things along. So, always contrary, he stayed silent, like the Gresley’s idea of a proper tank engine, and positively enjoyed it as a lark. And altogether it’s hard to imagine how the three should have muddled through the rest of their time, had Henry not just then puffed through the yard on the track furthest opposite them, with thirty-odd trucks sighing, groaning, and chatting behind him. 

Having slowed to pass safely through the yard and station, the train was moving none too fast, but it went on strong and steady. Thomas was relieved that Henry seemed to be having no difficulties just then, with the proud newcomer looking on.

A little diversion to watch was a relief—but Thomas wasn’t prepared for just how _very_ well-occupied Gordon seemed to be at the sight. 

It took Gordon a while to even react to the sound of the train, but eventually his dull, indifferent eyes fell on Henry, and when they did they lost their dullness. Thomas rather thought he was seeing Gordon’s fire come to life for the first time. The big engine’s mouth started to hang open, and slowly his face turned red. 

“What—is— _that_?” 

There was a flash of alarm in Edward’s expression that came and went, but left him looking very troubled, as if thinking fast and unhappily, and much conflicted. 

Thomas didn’t think Gordon had noticed; he was still gaping at the departing brakevan with such open-mouthed shock that Thomas was hard-pressed yet again to not laugh aloud. It was the funniest expression he had ever seen on a face, and he had no idea why Edward seemed to have abruptly lost sight of their new arrival’s comical side. 

“Oh, that’s our Tuesday afternoon goods train,” said Edward, and for a moment Thomas himself had to gape; this was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard Edward say, and by a wide margin, too. “Mostly farming, goes out to Kildane.” 

“Simple!” growled Gordon. “I meant what is that—that—that _abomination_ pulling it?” 

“ _That_ ,” retorted Edward, and there was nothing airy or casual in his tone now at all, “is N.W.R. number three. Though if you plan to make friends here, like a sensible engine, then you may call him Henry.” 

Gordon seemed to be as blindsided by this as Thomas, and to Thomas’s surprise he did not immediately argue. He only turned his stunned gaze from the middle distance to Edward… who was staring him down as pointedly as if Fat Controllers and strict orders about indulging the new arrival were things that had ceased to exist. 

“I—cannot—make friends with a—a—a _thing_ like that.” 

“We’re all living engines here, actually. And this is rather rude.” 

“Stuff your ‘rude’ in your funnel, little one! You wouldn’t know—you’re probably better off not knowing—but that’s not an engine. That’s a misbegotten counterfeit—a horrifying mishmash—a _gremlin changeling_ —bits of my entire family tree smashed together in a gruesome fashion… and with not a touch of grace or skill. The great Gresley never designed such a nightmare. You wouldn’t know—but they told me your Controller was a fair hand in a workshop himself, and _he_ must. And for him to allow such a spurious—” 

“He’s your Controller now too,” said Edward, who Thomas thought rather hypocritical, given that Edward had probably told him three or four hundred times that he, Thomas, mustn’t interrupt. 

Gordon stopped short, looking frustrated. 

“He is, isn’t he.” 

“Yes indeed. And he knows what he’s about.” 

“I suppose you believe it your place to never second-guess him,” said Gordon, with some disdain, and Thomas was shocked at the idea. “As it is, for the likes of you; you know nothing of the world, and you must be very grateful that he’s given a common fleet workhorse like you such a place as this. But _I_ know what sort of engine that thing is, and what he isn’t, and _our Controller_ ought to be made perfectly clear on the subject.” 

“Well, I suppose if you feel so strongly, you will have to inform him. But I don’t advise it. He doesn't care to be told his business.” 

There was something of a bloodthirsty relish in Edward’s tone at the prospect of Gordon daring to do it, and this indeed seemed to snuff out a good deal of Gordon’s enthusiasm for the plan. 

“Is he at any rate useful?” Gordon asked, after a thoughtful, to say nothing of grumpy, pause. 

Edward lied stoutly and at once. “Of course.” 

Gordon considered Edward grimly. At last he pronounced: “You are a simple little engine—”

“Oi!” put in Thomas, who could take it no more, but he was ignored by all parties. “Less of the ’simple’, then!” 

“—and you know not a thing about respect,” Gordon continued, glowering, “… but you do know loyalty.” 

“Never mind,” said Edward. “I’m sure, clever as you are, that you’ll pick up that last bit quickly, won’t you?” 

“Oh, simmer down, there. _Our Controller_ seems to think you manage the yard, for now, and I do not care to listen to lectures from the likes of you. I’m for a peaceful life. I’ll be civil to the freak—”

“ _I beg your pardon?_ ” 

Gordon sighed, much put-upon. But that was all. Edward had deployed a withering stare that Thomas had never seen in him before, and that he was very glad that he himself had never caught the wrong end of, as he thought in Gordon’s place he should probably not have spoken again for a week. 

“Henry can’t help how he was made,” Edward continued, taking advantage of Gordon’s somewhat theatrical blowing of air and steam, “and he’s a good sort.” 

“I’ll be civil to the sham,” Gordon corrected himself (and Edward really didn’t have a wheel to run on here, as nearly everyone referred to Henry as “the sham” or worse, and Linda had called Henry this, to his face, _daily_ ), “but, mark my words, it will go ill, or mad, if it hasn’t already. Sooner or later… and I’m betting sooner. It isn’t soundly built.” 

Thomas was most annoyed. Nearly everyone commented on Henry, and many teased him; no engine can escape the ever-ready mockery of the yard, and Henry offered rather a wide target. Thomas himself was probably the worst offender. But anyway, Henry was still one of them. 

Besides, Gordon’s commentary was far beyond any sort of ribbing Thomas had ever heard before. Somehow he was no longer glad that Gordon had already been painted in their colors, and resented him for an intruder. Even Edward, who Thomas thought had been marvelous, seemed at a loss to counter this latest bombshell, and he just eyed the bigger engine dourly. 

Gordon himself, under all his huffing, looked to still be in a state of real shock from his glimpse of Henry. And Thomas was pleased about that. Great snobby berk _should_ be stunned; no one that stupid should go about without slamming headfirst into reality a couple times a day. 

At this strained, silent juncture, their three crews returned from headquarters together as a group. They didn’t seem very hearty, but they certainly seemed to have made better headway getting acquainted than the engines had. 

Gordon saw his driver and said, with an imperiousness that shocked the other two, “There you are. Take me away, driver. I’m through here.” 

The driver _did_ , without reprimand nor retort. Thomas even got the idea that this disrespect wouldn’t be reported to the Fat Controller. He watched the big engine leave with some amazement. 

But, after Gordon was gone, he stared at Edward with just as much amazement, and with far more delight. “ _Really_?” he demanded, grinning wildly. It seemed to him a great joke. “All the silly sods we’ve had here over the years, and you played so nice with them all, and _this_ is the one you choose to put in his place? Him? Oh, you were mad brilliant, but—! _This one!_ ” 

Edward didn’t seem to remotely grasp the joke, which was quite unlike him. He was staring off into the middle distance where Henry had earlier disappeared, and his expression took the fun all out of the moment for Thomas, blowing a cold wind through him. He looked anxious. Edward, who wasn’t afraid of anything—for once looking at the future with faith shaken. 

“Whoosh,” said Thomas, bracing, trying to comfort the older engine. It was awkward to reverse roles. “He is _something_ , though. A bit much, but, well. One more summer, isn’t that right?” 

Edward tried to smile, and never got anywhere near it. 

“Oh, Thomas,” he said absently. “I hope it will be all right.” 

Thomas knew Edward always preferred harmony in all things, and for everyone to get along. Still, this was peculiar. And Thomas was determined to shake him out of it. “What! Go on. We’ll wear him down. He’s just a silly baby loco, really, for all his size.”

“That’s true. He ought to be treated like one. But then, that’s not the plan, is it?” 

Thomas didn’t quite understand him, but persisted with his campaign of cheer. “You taught _me_ some sense, when it was me so new, and I’ll help you with this one, won’t I? We’ll make something decent of him yet!” 

“If it were just the three of us, yes, I rather think we would. Most of that was petty nonsense, and cured by a little experience. But there’s going to be many more of us soon, and if he is let to go round saying things like that, and spread that kind of vicious attitude about Henry to the newcomers…” 

“Oh, that’s all? Don’t you worry! We’ll stand by old Henry, and make them back off.” 

“Yes, we’ll have to do our best. No one deserves to be talked about like that. Though it’s not just that, quite…” Edward couldn’t articulate it, and changed tacks. “You know, for all it’s been hard work, we’ve really had this place quite to ourselves all the while. Everyone else was temporary, and we almost always knew they would be. Gordon is in no danger of being sent away, and that might prove tricky, for he'll not feel the least pressure to... Well, anyway. I had better make things solid between me and Henry again, at any rate."

"That's right," said Thomas, encouraging, and then a little amused to hear himself. He went for broke. "Make nice; there's a good engine!"

"Cheeky pest.” But Edward said it without much heat or interest.

“You need a run; then you’ll clear your smokebox, and feel better,” declared Thomas. “It must be five soon, anyway, so you’d better get along to your train.” He said it all in a fair impression of Edward himself, and the other engine smiled, this time a little less mechanically. “Really, it’ll be all right! You'll see.” 

*

It was not. 

The summer itself was all right. They saved the railway. They expanded the railway. But by the end of the effort they were all worn down—engines and people and Controller and whatever it was Gordon claimed Henry to be. 

And then there was autumn. 

Much of the two years after that, Thomas’s memory flat-out refused to retain. 


End file.
